


Counting Down

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Soulmate-Identifying Timers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-08 04:55:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1927389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Soul mates' doesn't always mean love at first sight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The water’s boiling and Kimba sprinkles in a pinch of salt, then the potatoes, hissing as she moves back from the splash.

Red just smiles knowingly, light glinting off her glasses. Normally Kimba wouldn’t be so clumsy, but _today_ is the day, _today_ is the day she finally meets her destiny. In— and she can’t stop it, not even knowing that Red’s watching and that she really should be more worried about fixing supper and if she times it right everyone should be sitting down to eat and then her— forty-five minutes and thirteen seconds. As she watches, it changes, the thick black numbers emblazoned on her forearm (now reading **00:45:12** , but growing up there had been so many more numbers in front, all shifting and ticking down to mark every second until today…) in a personal clock more steady than her own heartbeat, more steady than _breathing_ —

Breathing. She has to remember to breathe.

“If you want to go relax a little, I can take over. You know Dusty’ll keep watch for you,” Red says gently.

Kimba swallows hard, lips twisting in a grateful smile even as she shakes her head. “No. I want to make sure everything’s perfect. I mean—“ And here she gulps, hands shaking as she busies herself with the sizzling chunks of molerat that are browning in the pan, pouring a can of tomato sauce over them. “We’re… we’re going to be soul mates. So of course she’ll understand if I’d rather make dinner for her than dress up or—“

Red catches her hands, pressing them between her own. Not for the first time, Kimba thinks that maybe, just maybe if they hadn’t already known they had other soul mates, maybe she and Red could have had something special too… but she values Red’s friendship too much to risk it.

“Kimba.” Red’s voice is gentle, soothing, like trying to lull one of the babies to sleep back in Little Lamplight. “Kimba, I meant just so you can calm down. You’re excited, but you’re nervous.” A warm laugh, rich and sweet like that cocoa that Bittercup scavenged out deep in the wastes. A special treasure.

“If I just sit by myself, I’m going to get even more nervous!” Kimba ducks her heat, already feeling the hot flush creep across her cheeks and ears, dripping down the back of her neck in red embarrassment. “At least I can _do_ something here.” And even though she’d _like_ to go out and take a quick wash—not that there’s anything like a shower or bath, not like what she’s read from books before the war, but at least she could take a damp cloth to her sweaty patches—a little part of her feels she’ll make a better impression by showing she’s a good cook, a decent shot, not too dainty…

…you know, the sorts of things that mean more in the real world than being some prewar pin-up.

Red squeezes just a little harder, as if trying to press certainty into Kimba’s shaking fingers. “Then let me help out. Dusty will call out when he sees anyone approach.” The medic coaxes her back into a semblance of routine, the two of them bustling about the small kitchen. Kimba sways to the side when Red reaches past her head, swinging open the cabinet to pull out clean(ish) plates, then Red neatly turns in place to avoid bumping into Kimba’s elbow as Kimba gives the saucepan a small shake. There is easy synchrony in their movements, like dancers who have performed the same routine so many times over that they can do it in their sleep.

Just another thing that will change with the new girl.

“So. What do you think your soul mate will be like?” Red asks, rustling into the cutlery drawer.

Swallowing, Kimba thinks about her answer. Not that she hasn’t wondered the same thing herself at night, the moonlight running across her arm as she silently watched the countdown… but she never tried putting it into words before.

 _I hope she’s a lot like you_.

The words die unspoken. That would be pushing too much, especially with just half an hour until she meets her true soul mate.

“I hope she’s sweet. Gentle.” She smiles shyly. “But practical. Good with a gun, but better with her hands.” Red immediately starts hooting, digging her elbow into Kimba’s ribs with a sly wink before Kimba blushes furiously, hissing, “ _Red_! I meant to rub my back after a long day!”

“That’s not all you meant, Kimba!” chortles Red, moving out of range as Kimba mimes kicking her shins.

“Oh you!”

The rest of the half hour dissolves into playful back and forth as they prepare the mash, then boiled noodles with sauce and peeled mutfruit. Kimba normally prepares the meal by herself, but at least Red’s company keeps her from getting lost in her own thoughts. When Dusty at last calls “Strangers in town!” Kimba blanches, hands flying to her hair but then Red whispers “you look _gorgeous_ , go on out and meet her,” and Kimba rushes to the door, glancing down at her timer and now it’s less than a minute so when she opens the door that’s another few precious seconds gone by and she’s walking out, forcing herself not to run, and she looks out and blinks and then—

Time stands still. She had read that expression once, but never understood it until now. This moment will always be emblazoned on her memory, emotion coloring it to an image sharper than life, clearer than the thousand little everyday things that get lost in the minutiae of daily living, and she can practically _feel_ the breeze stop against her cheek, dust crunching to a halt underfoot as she stares at the strangers.

Strangers. _Plural_. Four of them, all wearing green armor with a white logo. Two men and two women, but Kimba does not even bother looking at the men. The woman with tawny blonde hair must be their leader, but a quick look at her arms shows that _her_ timer has long since finished. So that leaves a muscular, bronze-skinned woman hoisting a mini-gun like it’s a toy, grinning ear to ear and holding up her arm.

**00:00:01**

Then….

**00:00:00**

…before they both feel that little jolt, like the fizz off a freshly opened bottle of Nuka-Cola but it’s running through her entire frame, and Kimba feels giddy and restless like she’s about to explode with excitement before she rushes forward and the other woman holds her arms wide and they embrace passionately, madly, melting into one another like the sunset sinking into the horizon…

Well, maybe not quite that way.

The other woman isn’t dropping her mini-gun of course, so her arm wraps over Kimba’s shoulder, squeezing hard and rough and making her wince a bit while she tries to—oh _ew_ , this was _not_ what she wanted her first kiss with her soul mate to be like, all rough lips and too much tongue and _oh no_ she can taste what she had for lunch…!

“H-hey! Wait!” she exclaims, muffled against the other woman—and she doesn’t even know her _name_ yet!—and pushing away. “I’m very happy to finally meet you! My name is Kimba, and, and,” _and I don’t know what to say I thought it would be love at first sight but it’s not and when you think about it isn’t having a timer on your wrist a little silly?_ “and I am glad to meet you. What’s your name?”

As far as finishers go, it could be worse. She could have burst into poetry, a la Bittercup.

“Brick.” She has some sort of sticky drawl, like whiskey and cola, and gives a broad wink. “So glad to see you too, honey. We were just passing through, but reckon we might stay the night. Then you can pack up and we can head out—“

Her pulse thunders in her ears, and Kimba quickly holds up her hands for a halt. “Whoa, _whoa_.” Everything is moving fast, way too fast, and she has to blink back unexpected tears. She was expecting things to change, but like this? “Who said I was going with you right now?”

“But we’re _soul mates_ ,” Brick says, blinking in confusion. “I mean, you ain’t gotta come along with us on missions and everything, but we got space at the Rangers’ compound—“

“Brick, you’re getting ahead of yourself,” the leader cuts in, leaving Kimba feeling sick and dizzy. All the lights look suddenly too bright, and she has to clutch her stomach, which suddenly feels like she swallowed half a dozen bloatflies. The woman introduces herself as Reilly, leader of Reilly’s Rangers. That elicits a few small ‘oohs’ from the surrounding townies, which continues as she presents the rest of her team. Butcher, Donovan, and yes, Brick. Apparently they have a mission to clear out a pack of slavers that had been setting up near Tenpenny Tower, and were hoping to stay the night at a friendly settlement. Red and Reilly quickly fall into an easy back and forth over food and supplies, which gives Brick another chance to sling her arm over Kimba’s shoulder, nuzzling aggressively close and whispering,

“Hey babe. Didn’t mean to startle you earlier, but… would love if you came with us. Doesn’t have to be right away, but after we finish up the mission…” Her teeth graze the outer shell of Kimba’s ear, making the smaller woman shiver. Not pleasantly, but feeling disgusted. Strangely _violated_. This isn’t supposed to be how your soul mate makes you feel. Could the timers have been wrong, for once?

She picks Brick’s arm off of her, pinching with her fingers like disposing of a dead radroach after the meat’s been picked out. Lips pursed and teeth gritted, she tries to respond. “Can’t we just… talk, first? Get to know each other?”

“What is there to know, babe? We’re _soul mates_.” Brick grins, teeth gleaming sharp as the sickle moon. Kimba’s heart drops to her stomach. She _looks_ so good, so strong and beautiful and her arms are so firm, but this is all just so fast…

“Cool it, bozo,” Donovan snaps, moving between them and shoving them aside with a hand on each woman’s arm. Kimba normally doesn’t like being touched by strangers, but is willing to make an exception in this case. “Brick, stop being a jackass. Kimba, feel free to punch her in the jaw if she’s getting too mouthy.”

“ _Hey_ , this is my girlfriend here!” Brick exclaims, rubbing the back of her scalp and scowling ferociously.

“ _This_ is the girl you just met. Who _may_ be your soul mate, but only if you don’t _scare her off_ first.” Acid drips from every word. “Hell, I’ve seen you sweet-talk hookers more gently than that.” After that perturbing statement, he bestows a much gentler look on Kimba. “I mean it about punching, by the way. I’ve seen her kicked in the face by a brahmin before, and she got up in less than a minute.” He releases both of them, but stays firmly between the two. “I’ll even give you punching lessons if you need ‘em.”

“Ah… thank you,” Kimba mumbles, thinking her face must be as red as the tomato sauce. “Brick, I—I am really glad about us finally meeting, but I just want to take it a little slow at first. Even if we’re meant to be together, I just—well, I don’t even know the first thing about you.”

“My name is Brick, my favorite color’s green, my favorite food is radscorpion, simmered nice ‘n low, and I am truly, madly, _deeply_ in love with you.” The words spill easily from her lips, like a mantra, like a prayer, like Kimba has become her whole world as she stares at her with honey-brown eyes and with her lips parted. “You are—well, shit. I dunno what else to say, babe.” Brick scuffles back and forth, kicking the dirt and staring somewhere around Kimba’s feet. “Was love at first sight for me. But I can wait. Hell, I can wait.” A long, gusty sigh, and she looks up with eyes too sad to match the grin on her face. “I waited this long, haven’t I?”

* * *

 

By ‘wait,’ all that means is that they try to have a normal conversation, getting to know each other slowly, over the course of—

Dinner? Really? One meal, one night of talking? Kimba feels strange and awkward. All of her friends are people she’s known for _years_ , since childhood, and the idea of just up and leaving (maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow, maybe not _ever_ if Brick is willing to travel back and forth between wherever the Rangers stay and Big Town) makes her feel cold and lonely, like the littlest molerat being kicked out of the burrow. Even if they are supposed to be soul mates, how can _one person_ possibly replace the ache of your entire community, your entire _family_? Will Brick’s quirks ever replace the certainty of knowing that Flash uses too much pepper sauce when he cooks, or that Shorty snores like a Ripper going off next to your ear?

Brick tries, at least. She talks and talks, waxing eloquent on the beauty of the Wasteland (“the sun is gorgeous when it sets over the river, babe! Reds and orange bleeding into the water like one of them old paintings!”) and the safety she plans to provide for her new wife (“I swear, as long as I got Eugene right here nothing’s gonna ever hurt you, babe!”) but nothing seems to really permeate her brain-fog. She’s staring at the world, but everything is dull and grey, stripped of color and meaning. Kimba can’t even eat the meal she cooked, just picking around the edges of her plate.

Finally, Red cuts in. “We’re sure going to miss Kimba, though.” Her smile is sad and wistful, eyes meeting Kimba’s in wordless communication, like they’ve done so often before. _You okay?_

 _No, I’m not_ , Kimba thinks miserably. This was supposed to be the happiest day of her life, but her soul mate is such a—such a self-centered _bore_.

So before Brick can answer, Kimba speaks for herself. “No. You don’t have to miss me. I’m not leaving.”

“What?” Finally, something to shut Brick up. The mercenary stares at her, jaw agape.

“I’m not leaving Big Town. You just—you never even _asked_ me if I wanted to leave,” Kimba says, starting timid but gaining strength as she spots Donovan’s approving nod. “This is where my friends are. This is where my _family_ is. I just—I just _met_ you!” Setting her plate aside with a rattling scrape, she adds, “You just _assumed_ I’d up and leave with you. How about if I just asked you to leave the Rangers to stay here with us?”

“But _babe_. The Rangers are my life, my work!”

“And Big Town is _mine_ ,” she whispers, soft and fierce. Everyone else has stopped talking to stare at the spat between the two ‘lovebirds,’ but Kimba is too relieved at finally finding her voice to feel even remotely mortified. “I’m just—I’m just keeping on here, because this is _my_ town and _my_ friends. And even if we’re supposed to be in love, that’s not changing on a moment’s notice.”

A long silence, with only the crackling bonfire to interrupt.

Finally, Reilly breaks the stillness. “Well said. I don’t want to have to rush you two, but we do still have our mission in the morning. We will stop here again on the way back, and you two can work out whatever needs be done.”

After dinner, Brick and Kimba head to the practice range. Kimba carries an old BB gun, but Brick left her mini-gun with the other Rangers. Still strong, but she looks more vulnerable without the weapon’s heft beside her. Kimba knows her little toy gun isn’t exactly a practical weapon, but the bullets are plentiful and at least it still sharpens her aim. At least that’s her excuse; the real reason is that she loves the satisfaction of pulling that trigger to ping targets off the railing.

“Babe, I guess I just don’t understand,” Brick mutters. “I _love_ you.”

“You just met me.” Kimba takes careful aim at a dented can, grateful for the excuse not to meet Brick’s eyes. “What do you love about me?”

“Your eyes. Your smile. You’re just—you got this smart, knowing look to you, yeah? You’re sweet, a hell of a cook—“

A squeeze of the trigger and the can falls over. “You didn’t know that when you saw me,” Kimba objects. Breathing out slowly, she aims for the next target.

“Nah, but I loved you anyway. I just—“ Brick swallows, wrapping her arms around herself as if she wishes she were holding someone else. Kimba tries not to think about the hookers Donovan mentioned. “Didn’t you feel it too? That little jump through you, like electricity?”

Kimba nods, but isn’t sure what to make of it. That was _feelings_ , and even though she gets some of those _feelings_ , flutters in her belly or a tingling through her thighs when she spies a pretty lady, that’s not the same as being in love. Not by a long shot. But when she tries to say as much, Brick groans low in her throat, slumping against the wall and sliding down until her butt hits the dirt.

“But babe, love is supposed to be all about feelings.” She taps her chest for emphasis, and when Kimba turns to face her, Brick looks like a ghost of herself, face washed moon-pale.

“Love is harder than people think,” Kimba mutters, not even remembering where she first heard that.

Brick smiles, sad and painful. “That too.”


	2. Chapter 2

Brick is awake before the dawn, standing outside and swinging her arms in wide circles, priming her for jumping jacks. She knows she ain’t necessarily the sharpest knife in the belt, but at least the exercise calms her. Keeps her focused, tight and clean. Something to channel her frustration at.

An explosion of activity, legs springing out and hands swinging wide as she starts. An easy rhythm, breath puffing past her lips as she keeps a mental count that still isn’t enough to drive out the memory of dark eyes and gentle lips, twisted in distaste—

 _Fuck_. How can your soul mate not… you know, fall in love at first sight?

 _Yeah_ , it helped that Kimba was gorgeous. But there had been electricity there too, recognition; two halves of the same heart finally meeting. Seeing her had been like drinking aqua pura after only getting irradiated crap for the rest of her life.

Fuck. She lost count of the jumping jacks. Without any real recollection of how many she’s already done, she tacks on twenty more before shifting to pushups. Her breath stirs the fine grit as she dips low, sweating palms grinding into the dirt as she executes painstakingly perfect technique. Her pops’d taught her that one, and she still hears his guttural ‘ _doing it RIGHT once is better’n doing it ten times any other way_.’ Twenty-five of those, flawless, deep, and straight-backed. Then she staggers her legs wide, centering one palm and lifting the other behind her back. One-handed now, the kind of push-ups that would impress the girls back home before she joined the Rangers…

Would it impress Kimba?

What _does_ Kimba like?

Bending her knees and rolling her shoulders, Brick ponders that. She’d been… well, _fucking selfish_ is what Donovan’d probably say, but—well, shit. Brick’s gotta admit he’d be right. She’d been daydreaming about what her girlfriend would look like (and _hello_ but Kimba was even hotter than she’d have thought) and was hoping for some kinda old prewar domestic goddess and _damn_ the girl could cook, but hadn’t given much thought to what the girl would actually do for fun, outside of cooing over her biceps and rolling around in the sack. Does Kimba like music? Reading for fun? She’d been so busy trying to impress her last night that she’d…

Shit. She never even asked Kimba _any_ of that shit.

No wonder Kimba kept giving her the wary eye.

Her other palm goes flat on the ground, and Brick adjusts herself. Gotta stay balanced. Gotta give both sides an equal workout. Gotta be _balanced_ …

So she’s gotta ask Kimba about herself. Yeah. A good start.

She finishes the set, then hops to her feet, dusting her hands off against her pants. The rest of the Rangers’ll be up soon, but Red had said they’d fix up breakfast before the mercenaries leave.

Brick ducks into the kitchen of the common house, breathing deep. Her nose tells her it’s going to be oatmeal, which doesn’t really excite her much, but she sees Kimba chopping dried mutfruit with a couple shakers of spice out.

“Whatcha got there, pretty lady?” Brick asks.

Kimba glances up, her instinctive smile freezing in place. Awkwardly, Brick tries loosely holding her hands behind her back, hoping it makes her look more open.

“Cinnamon. Plus a little bit of brown sugar.” The cook smiles weakly. “Not too much, but enough to perk the taste a bit.”

“Better’n whatever I’d make. It all ends up tasting like socks.” Brick tries for an easy grin, acutely aware of how her tongue seems stuck to the roof of her mouth and how Kimba keeps eyeing her like a baby molerat that just spotted a dog. Why is she so timid?

 _‘Well, maybe because you just manhandled her and made big decisions about what she was going to do with her life without even ASKING her_ ,’ she remember Donovan saying, from last night’s heart to heart with the tech expert. Fucking Donovan. She never _asked_ his advice, but then again, she never thought she’d _need_ it.

They just stare at each other, two strangers who are somehow supposed to be in love. The tension’s thick and gloppy, just like oatmeal.

Finally, Brick dips her head low, shuffling her feet awkwardly. “Hey. I’m sorry. I know I was a real jackass yesterday, but… can we start over? I promise, I ain’t gonna touch you unless you give me the go ahead.”

Kimba gives a startled giggle, and _god_ it’s like music, and the surprised smile easing across her face is like the perfect sunrise. She’s beautiful and gorgeous and every good thing wrapped up in one woman, and Brick lets out a low sigh of relief. Acknowledging the awkward was a good step.

“Yes. Let’s start over. Hello, I’m Kimba.” She even gives a little finger-wave, fluttering them like playing an invisible instrument.

“Hello, I’m Brick.” Flexing—and Kimba laughs again, but Brick grins at her, mouthing ‘ _hey, never said I wasn’t gonna try and impress you_ ,’—she twists side to side, striking the most ridiculous poses she can recall out of old Grognak issues. One arm curled, the other extended while she bends her knee in a deep lunge, Brick continues. “And I’m a real tough gal.” She turns to the side, arms flexed. “Besides my big ol’ Eugene, I got these two guns right here,” and she pauses to kiss her biceps, waggling her eyebrows and deliberately playing it up, cheesy and ridiculous because _fuck_ if she’s not ridiculous sometimes, but if they’re supposed to be soul mates maybe Kimba’ll like it, “and trust me, they’re all in fine working order.” A shallow bow, with Kimba’s pattering applause as her reward.

“Nice to meet you Brick.” Kimba’s smile is warm, filling Brick all the way to her stomach like a fresh-cooked omelet.  Bet the girl could fry a real good omelet too, if Brick just could get her the eggs—and damn if she wouldn’t hunt down every last deathclaw in Olney just to make this woman smile. “I don’t know much about big guns, but I’m a decent shot with my BB gun.” She bites her lip now, just a flash of teeth against that dark skin and Brick just wants to pull her close and breathe her deep and hold her against all the fucked up shit that’s out there in the world—

But that’d be moving too fast again.

“So you like guns? What else do you like?”

And so that’s it—just slow and casual, like she’s trying to pick her up at a bar instead of… well, whatever yesterday’s mess was. A slow circle, trying to learn the lay of the land instead of just charging in. Because Kimba might be worth fighting for, yeah, but Kimba’s not supposed to _be_ a fight. She’s sweet and warm like butter on fresh bread. She’s got just the slightest gap in her teeth when she laughs, and even that tiny little snort she gives at the end of her giggles is just so unique and precious that Brick can’t imagine loving anyone else.

They’re soul mates, and she’s just gotta help Kimba see it too.


	3. Chapter 3

Brick leaves Big Town the next day with the Rangers, returning several days later with a loud whoop and a sniper rifle. “’Tain’t a _big_ gun, honey, but better’n a BB gun,” the mercenary says earnestly, holding it out like a peace offering rather than a gift. “I know you’ve got Big Town, so you can’t just up and leave with us, but I’d feel better knowing you’ve got something to snipe any muties or raiders ‘afore they come close enough to bother you.”

It’s both thoughtful and practical, something she would not have expected from the brash young woman that wrapped her arm so possessively about her.

“Thank you,” Kimba whispers, genuinely grateful. Her eyes prickle with tears and Brick steps back, scuffing her feet in the dirt.

When the woman speaks, it’s shy and mumbled, a sharp contrast to the swaggering braggadocio of their first meeting. “I can’t always be coming around, but… I was hoping to send letters. Presents, maybe.” A grin, tousling her hair with one hand and the corners of her eyes crinkling. “I mean, I know it was love at first sight for _me_ , but I’d like to court you proper. If you wouldn’t mind.”

Kimba hugs the rifle close and nods. “I wouldn’t mind.”

* * *

 

Kimba endures lots of good-natured teasing from Sticky and Dusty over having possibly the _weirdest_ courtship ever, but Red just squeezes her hand and tells her not to worry about it. Soul mates are soul mates, but no two souls are ever truly alike, and no two bonds will be either.

So there are presents back and forth. Kimba nearly faints with delight, knock-kneed and surprised when Crazy Wolfgang first comes into Big Town with whiskey and red chili flakes, plus a letter written in a bold, jagged-edged scrawl that seems so perfectly _Brick_ that Kimba immediately recognizes it as hers.

It’s mostly chit-chat, just talking about being back in the Ranger compound and some of the daily routine. It’s not until the last paragraph that Kimba feels her cheeks flush, her thumb pressing crinkles into the paper as her grip tightens.

_‘Love is a burning thing. So here’s whiskey and red chili, something that can keep you warm. I keep thinking of you and hope to see you soon_.’

Even Flash doesn’t feel the need to douse everything with centuries-old pepper sauce at dinner, and everyone savors the warm heat of the chili-seasoned stew that Kimba prepares. She goes to bed with rosy cheeks and whiskey on her breath. 

* * *

 

Next time, it’s Doc Hoff bringing another letter and bottles of coarse sea salt, plus a large packet of brahmin jerky. Timebomb lets out a wolf whistle, saying he hope everyone else’s soul mate plans on feeding Big Town, but Kimba just rips into the letter.

More inanities, idle chatter that describes the flash but not the substance of Brick’s days with the Rangers. Again though, it’s only at the end that Brick tips her hand.

‘ _Missing you is like salt upon wounds. Good jerky—I dried it myself and packed it special for you, babe—and fancy salt, like what the nice ladies would have liked before the war. Because you deserve the best of everything_.’

Salt is such a simple thing, but it adds savor to every dish.

Brick is a simple woman, but Kimba feels herself growing to savor these brief missives. 

* * *

 

Like a fairytale, it looks like things are coming in threes—and when Lucky Harith stops by with another letter, Kimba rushes to read it before even bothering to unpack the accompanying box.

More trivialities, but at the end…

‘ _Forgetting you is impossible, and maybe all the prewar dreams and recipes are impossible too, but—I know your heart. I know how much you love to care for people, how you do all the little things that help make Big Town a home and not just another scattering of houses. So here are some more impossible dreams, and maybe some things to help make them happen. I’m traveling out with Donovan soon, and we’ll stop by Big Town. I look forward to seeing you.’_

The box has several prewar cookbooks, filled with impossible recipes, things that Kimba would never dare to dream—white cakes topped with mounds of cream and fresh berries, and even if they had the fresh milk and could use mutfruit they’d never find enough sugar, but _oh_ it feeds her soul just to look at the pictures. The rack of lamb—whatever that is, but it looks so tender and juicy – makes her mouth water even as she mourns the lack of ‘mint jelly’ or rosemary and all the accompanying things that those crazy, blessed prewar chefs never had to go without. Chicken pot pie and flaky croissants, things that melt across her tongue and her mind like cotton candy dreams…

But there are more packages under the books, wrapped things that she lifts carefully. A two-pound bag of sugar, miraculously intact. A plastic bottle of vanilla extract, the brown liquid aromatic and precious. Some measuring cups and spoons, and even if they are mismatched pieces of various sets all jumbled together…

Kimba’s eyes fill with tears, and she has to gather her arms about herself to weep silently.

Brick isn’t just trying to give her presents.

Brick is trying to feed her dreams.


	4. Chapter 4

Just another irradiated day, where Brick can feel the grit caking on the back of her neck and the sun baking her into her armor—but ‘baking’ makes her think of an oven, and sweet rolls and _Kimba_ and the neat little bundle of letters tucked into the chest of her armor. Kimba’s got a tidy hand, her pencil so light it’s like a whisper across the paper, with every cross and dot arrayed in orderly precision like the pristine model kitchens of the prewar cookbooks.

‘ _Thank you very much for the sniper rifle. Yesterday I picked off two super mutants before they even realized I was there, and Shorty got the third…_ ’

Gorgeous, cooks, and a great shot. What more could a dame ask for?

Well… for her soul mate to love her back.

It’s not like she can get too mad—hell, it wasn’t like her own letters were exactly gushing over with ‘hey Kimba you’re the most beautiful lady I ever laid eyes on’ or ‘your breath is like the sweet perfume of a thousand gardens’ or any of that other romantic prewar poetry shit—but it’d be nice if Kimba had written something else.

Still. The first letter had ended with ‘sincerely, Kimba.’

The second—and Brick had spent so long staring at it that sometimes it feels seared across her eyeballs when she shuts her lids—was more informative, at least. Still quiet and restrained, none of the warmth or little giggles that Kimba lets out when she’s feeling safe and cozy, but at least the girl was opening up.

‘ _Thank you for all the gifts. I wish I could give you something of equal value, but I can’t pack up the sunset from where I sit on the rooftop, or the thrill of the sniper rifle recoiling against my shoulder. I can wrap the security of your presents around me like a warm blanket, but can’t give you anything as precious. So please, take the Nuka-Cola and the necklace. A ghoul told me the beads are supposed to be lucky.’_

Brick had whispered the words to herself, tasting them across her tongue. She can still taste it now, ‘presents’ slipping sweetly into ‘presence’ like cola bubbles fizzing against her teeth. The string of plastic beads is wrapped about her wrist, looped on itself into a glittering green armlet. It’s too gaudy for Brick’s personal tastes, but still. Kimba remembered her favorite color. That’s something.

‘ _Thank you a thousand times over. I know we started awkwardly, but maybe we can finish smooth. I’m counting down the days until you come back.’_

The second ended with ‘yours truly, Kimba.’

Maybe a third one will end with ‘love, Kimba.’

* * *

So when they finally meet again—face to face and even if they already counted down _fuck_ if she doesn’t feel her heart lurch into her chest again, and she’s gonna fucking _choke_ on it and Donovan’s gonna laugh his ass off—Brick smiles bright and cheery, trying to cover how uncertain she feels with a hearty laugh. She waves her hand, letting the sunlight glint off the shiny beads. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” Kimba’s smile lights her face like a picture of those prewar Christmas trees, and Brick stops cold, because there ain’t _nothing_ , not even Eugene blazing at full glory, that can match that feeling in her gut. She’s even wearing one of those prewar spring outfits, a pale green thing that makes Brick think of mint and dill and rosemary and a million other green things that she had looked at in those books while trying to find the perfect presents. But Kimba makes it all fresh and sweet, nothing like the faded pictures.

“And hey from the third wheel,” Donovan snorts. Kimba blushes prettily as Brick gives Donovan a backhanded swat across the shoulders. He stays just long enough to let Brick know that he’s still razzing her, but leaves before it makes Kimba get too embarrassed. Good guy. Brick makes a note to give him less grief on the next mission.

So now it’s just the two of them. Brick swallows, mouth dry as she fumbles for words. “You look good. Real good, babe.”

The curve of her lip is a sweet and secret thing, like the raisin pocket in a sweet roll. “Thank you. I figured we’d match this way.” Her hand extends, arm loose and elbow bent as she taps her fingernail against Brick’s armor. Brick breathes out slow, wondering how much is too much, how much is not enough—

“I been reading,” she blurts. Smooth, real smooth. Kimba laughs a little, and her eyes crinkle just a little at the corners and _damn_ if she’s not gonna end up being the foxiest old lady Brick’s ever met if her wrinkles look just like that. “I mean, I been trying to learn some of this cooking stuff. Because I figure if it’s something you like, something that’s important to you, I gotta learn a little, right?”

The slow nod of Kimba’s head spurs her on.

“And I reckon the most important thing I figured—is that sometimes, all you need is just time. Like baking. One of the books was talking about how even if you figure the math, baking something for an hour at three-fifty ain’t the same as doing it for forty minutes at four seventy-five, or however the math works out.” If the math works out. Brick isn’t really clear on the differences, and sugar and flour are too precious to waste on random cooking snafus, but Donovan had drilled it into her head that _time_ , time is everything. “So…” Fuck, she keeps saying ‘so.’ It’s just a filler word, a waste of breath while she tries to fumble the words out. “Maybe the timers don’t let us change the _time_ , the getting to know each other and all, but at least it’s a promise the recipe will be tasty.” She cracks her knuckles, slouching against the wall. “If I didn’t mangle that analogy to hell and back.”

Kimba reaches up to touch her face—and Brick stops breathing for just a moment, feeling her sun-kissed skin against her own, the slight stick of her fingertips against her sweaty cheek—and strokes her jaw, looking at her… and for the first time, Brick thinks Kimba is _tall_. Actually taller than her, but she’s used to thinking of her as a tiny fragile thing just because she looks so demure.

Fuck. There’s so much more to learn about Kimba, even the stuff that she’d thought would be the most obvious.

But Kimba leans in to press a whisper-light kiss against her ear, and Brick knows she’ll get the chance to learn.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s a week of slow courtship, Brick and Kimba circling one another around Big Town as Flash teases and Red chuckles and Donovan threatens bodily harm on Brick if the grunt makes _one move_ out of line…

But they learn one another.

Brick learns the shape of Kimba’s lips, the many types of smiles that the quiet woman gives—secretive, warm, sad, wistful, embarrassed—and learns each of them like varying shades of color, each tinting Kimba’s expression. She learns her favorite songs and stories, told over the campfire after dinner, and slowly earns more of those smiles—grateful, delighted, surprised—when Brick starts telling her own stories. Little things, fables and fairytales passed down from her father and grandfather, but they’re all new to Kimba.

Kimba learns the strength of Brick’s arm, the way she hoists crates and supplies unflinching. Brick’s accustomed to carrying Eugene, and is stronger than any of the boys in Big Town. Friendly wagers over arm-wrestling quickly turns into all the men (save Donovan, who wisely stays out of it) owing Brick caps, cola, or embarrassing favors. She learns the way Brick’s hands betray her every thought when not tightly clenched about Eugene. The way her palms sweat when she’s anxious, rubbing them against her pants, or how she scratches the back of her neck when feeling defensive or embarrassed. A thousand ways of holding her hands, for a thousand little expressions beyond the young mercenary’s surface bluster.

Their scant letters—and Brick is relieved to learn that Kimba treasures hers just as carefully as Brick does, keeping them tucked beneath her mattress—are bare lines, dry words without savor. But learning body language, learning the laughter in Kimba’s eyes and the shyness in Brick’s hands, learning the way they fit together slowly like puzzle pieces starting with the center rather than the corners because that’s unfortunately just the way they _happened_ —fills those lines, splashing color and warmth like a thousand sunsets spilling onto the page.

It’s soul mates.

So after three slow and gentle days, Kimba takes Brick’s hand. Holds her gently, traces her thumb over the callused knuckles and kisses salt from Brick’s neck. Then, giggling, she takes a half-step back and allows Brick to catch her, the merc brushing chapped lips over Kimba’s eyelashes. Not much more, not really.

At the end of five warm nights, after the fire’s died and all the stories have been told, Kimba leans against Brick’s shoulder. Hesitantly, afraid of spooking the slender woman away, Brick gently wraps her arm around Kimba’s back. Lighter than cobwebs, and even easier to brush away if Kimba wishes.

She does not wish.

They nestle against each other until finally Shorty’s snoring saws through the night air, reminding everyone it’s time to sleep on actual _mattresses_.

They sleep apart.

But on the seventh day, Brick joins Kimba in the kitchen.

* * *

“Hey, can I help?” Brick stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame with one hand awkwardly wrapped around the elbow of her other arm. There is no way the muscular woman can shrink into the wood, no matter how hard she tries, and Kimba’s cheeks flush at the hesitation. Swagger and hesitation, all the fumbling starts and stops of adolescent romance—this feels more real than all the assumptions of fate.

“I’d love if you help. Want to…” Her tongue flicks out. Moistens her lips, and she catches Brick staring, her own mouth parted as if hypnotized. “Come here. Put your arms around me, and I’ll show you how to mix the cookie dough.”

Brick walks behind her, breath warm against her ear and arms wrapped around her. They fit perfectly together, Kimba’s head against Brick’s shoulder and the soft friction of the other woman’s thigh pressed between hers…

“Slow,” she whispers, sweet and gentle. A puff of flour as she folds the dough over, working in with her hands to transform the sticky mess of ingredients—precious white flour, more sugar than Kimba’s ever seen in a lifetime, a splash of vanilla, a glop of scrambled deathclaw egg because they couldn’t figure out how many deathclaw eggs were equal to one ‘chicken’ egg—into dough. The eggs and cool milk run over her hand, the moisture strangely erotic as Brick’s forearms press against hers, digging right into the bowl.

Brick’s breathing harder now, and her answer hoarse. “Slow.”

“Steady.” Making a dip in the bowl, sweeping in the flour as Brick’s hands follow, so she tilts her palm, meeting Brick’s as the wet mass squishes between their palms. “It’s patience. Time.” She leans her head back, resting her cheek full against Brick’s shoulder and daring to rub against her, teasing. “Can’t rush it.”

“Going slow can be kinda nice,” Brick allows, lowering her head to brush her lips against Kimba’s ear. A wet press of lips, then she stops, stammering, “May I? I mean, I don’t want to bother you or nothin’—“

A laugh, sweet and clear. “You have permission, Brick. Just… slow. Gentle.” Their hands meet again in the goopy mixture, and it’s just _wet_ and sensual, the heat of their palms against the cool dough as they start mashing together, pulling the rest of the ingredients together into a cohesive lump.

Brick’s teeth against her ear, her hand in the bowl—Kimba creates a small well in the section of the dough, and very deliberately takes Brick’s hand. Extends her index finger, straight and strong, gently pushing into that wet opening…

“Oh _fuck_ baby,” groans Brick, and her tongue’s on her ear, tracing that spiral shell, and they press together like spoons. Kimba’s belly digs into the counter, her hips thrust flat against the wooden base, and Brick’s thigh is between hers, pressing _up_ against that liquid heat.

Kimba moans soft, slow. Still slow, because they can’t _rush_ and it’s got to be _right_.

“Brick, with me. We’re almost done with the mixing, but need to add the chips…”

“I think you’re good enough to _eat_ ,” she whispers, tonguing the edge of Kimba’s collarbone and twining their limbs together.

“But we need to finish the dough and start baking—“ She interrupts herself with a gasp, caused by that muscular leg pressing between her own, and Brick could _lift_ her with that leg alone, she’s so strong.

Brick whispers in her ear, sweet and dirty. “I _need_ to make you come, baby.”

“Not yet. S-slow—you promised.” And Kimba hates the way her voice sounds, trembling and aching and she does _want_ to come, but she wants to finish this first…

And Brick stops, pressing their cheeks together. She can feel the other woman’s eyelashes against her skin, tickling just slightly.

“Okay babe. Where’s the chocolate?”

“Measured out in that smaller bowl, right there.”

So Brick dumps the chips in and they go back to mixing the raw dough, hands gripping and squeezing as they slip past one another. The chips add another layer of texture, and Kimba loves the dull pebbled feel of the chips pressed between their fingers as they go back to one another, mixing and turning, folding and thrusting and when she makes another small well, Brick slips her fingers in one at a time, whispering, “Going _slow_ , babe…” as first her index finger, then her middle finger go in, “but I want to make sure you get as much as you want.” And Kimba shivers, and would be pressing her thighs together if it weren’t for Brick’s leg down there, and they grind slow and steady as the chips get incorporated into the batter.

Finally they drop the dough in pinches onto a cookie sheet, popping it into the oven and setting a timer. Brick catches her wrist with one callused and messy hand, facing her now and pulling her hand towards her mouth. Kimba allows herself to be limp and pliant, watching and _feeling_ as Brick licks her palm, tongue running from the base of the wrist along to the slender tip of her pinky. Their eyes meet, a sizzling thing that melts Kimba to the core, but to break the circuit by looking away just seems _impossible_ now, especially when Brick’s lips wrap around her finger, sucking gently, lapping and cleaning her of dough.

“Sweet like I thought, babe.” Brick goes to the next finger, popping her mouth almost down to the knuckle as Kimba moans.

But two can play this game, so Kimba presses close, feeling her nipples harden and chafe against her undershirt as she presses her body full against Brick’s. Angling her face up, she sucks at the sensitive skin below Brick’s chin, using just the faintest bite to elicit a startled gasp from her—her—

Her lover. Her _soul mate_.

Finally, the acceptance washes over her like a wave, cool and cleansing in this endless Wasteland heat. Brick is her _soul mate_.

So she latches on with wet lips and hot breath, squeezing herself closer. Brick’s free hand reaches up hesitantly, probably afraid to get Kimba’s hair dirty, so she murmurs, “It’s _okay_ , Brick,” and that acceptance is enough. There are still morsels of dough left on her fingers, but now it’s just two women and two bodies in desperate need of one another. Kimba would normally be mortified at the thought of doing this in the _kitchen_ , where she _prepares food_ , but dammit this is _her_ domain and no-one _better_ be coming in soon, and at least here they can clean up right after…

All sorts of silly self-justifications, but Kimba just _wants_ Brick. Wants her here, now, forever.

So they fumble with their clothing, leaving doughy handprints on Brick’s armor and against the cupboards as they go to the ground. Kimba’s pants make a thin barrier against the cheap linoleum as she leans back, legs sliding apart while Brick kisses her ankle, her calf, working her way up to her thighs as Kimba closes her eyes, concentrating only on the sound of their breathing and Brick’s lips on the inside of her leg, a hard suck, and then—

“Oh, don’t _tease_ me,” she begs, feeling Brick kiss her curls, her outer lips, tickling her nose against her sensitive clit but never actually laying lips or tongue on any part of her.

“ _Slow_ , babe.” Kimba cracks her eyes open, just enough to see Brick grinning up at her with impish delight, then squeezes her eyes shut as oh _holy_ of holies Brick’s _mouth_ is so warm, sucking against her labia and then kissing her clit, hands pulling her open and spreading her wide for Brick’s eager mouth and talented tongue and she’s circling her in teasing strokes before just lapping over and over and “ _Oh FUCK!_ ” she explodes, squeezing her thighs together and praying she’s not crushing Brick’s skull as the woman continues bearing down on that sensitive bud. “N-no! Enough!” she begs, bones gone to jelly. “I’m too sensitive right after,” she adds, the explanation weak and pitiful as she lays in a limp puddle on the floor. The back of her head feels sore, like she’s been digging it into the floor—probably was, while her back was arching during that phenomenal orgasm—but it’s such a faint thing compared to the pride on Brick’s face.

Brick sits up, casually wiping the back of her hand against her mouth. “I did good, babe?”

“Yeah. _Really_ good.”

More kissing—and Kimba can taste herself off Brick’s lips, but moans deep in her throat—and Brick straddles one of her legs, grinding against her thigh so she can feel Brick’s juices slick over her leg.

“Brick, do you want me to…?”

“Nah, I like—I like grinding. And I wanna play with your breasts, if you don’t mind?” A smidge of hesitation, the cocky mercenary still not entirely certain of Kimba’s limits or experience, but Kimba nods.

“I like when you play with my breasts. I just feel a little selfish…”

“Babe, you’re the most caring and giving person I know.” A wet grind, bodies meeting and Brick tilting her hips to get a better angle as she kisses Kimba’s neck. “I know I can’t take you outta Big Town—but dammit, every time we touch—“ Her words trail off as she traces a wet line down the slope of her chest, dotting her tongue over the dark areola and blowing softly. Kimba groans, leg tensing—and Brick rides that tension, hot against her body while pressing her shoulder down. Kimba groans, feeling the floor hard beneath her body, but it’s _worth_ it for Brick’s ecstatic face, eyes scrunched shut and mouth parted and Kimba _squeezes_ , lifts, grips Brick’s buttocks, leaves white fingerprints against her girlfriend’s body when Brick finally releases her climax in a shockingly soft _mewl_ that sounds so ridiculous coming from Brick’s throat but _that’s_ the sound of her lover in pleasure.

She loves this woman.

They lay on the floor in a tangle of limbs, Brick rolling beside her and nuzzling her ear. Kimba rests her nose at Brick’s scalp, watching the short hairs sway with every exhale. The air is filled with warmth and sweetness, salt and musk and oh…

Kimba pushes herself to her feet in sudden realization. “Cookies are going to burn.” Brick tries to follow, and she quickly commands, “Wash your hands before touching the food!” and there’s not even really enough time to wash, just using cheap green soap and they are still _naked_ but at least Brick’s grinning now, laughing at how flustered she is. Still naked, still feeling sweat sticking between her thighs and fumbling with one hand to grab a towel as an impromptu potholder, she pulls the tray out of the oven. Perfect golden brown, and she breathes out a sigh of relief.

“Damn, those smell good. We oughtta get dressed babe, ‘afore the smell brings everyone running.” Smacking her lips, Brick makes no move to follow her own advice. Instead, she grabs a spatula and flips a still-hot cookie into her fingers, juggling it between her hands as she starts nibbling. Melted chocolate smears across her lips, and Kimba resists rolling her eyes as she pulls her clothes on.

“Maybe you should get dressed then.”

“Nah, I don’t mind being naked. I figure _you_ would.” Brick grins, broad and reckless, and—dammit, holding the cookie means that Kimba can’t read her hands any more, but that sparkle in Brick’s eye means she’s pulling her leg. Probably. But Kimba doesn’t mind, instead sticking her tongue out as she zips her pants again.

“At least wipe my handprint off your rear.”

“Maybe I _like_ having your hand on my ass. Could get it tattooed.”

Kimba retorts by throwing the dish towel at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Rambly author's notes linked here.](http://chocochipbiscuit.tumblr.com/post/92081386430/authors-notes-counting-down)


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